Wes Warbler: Undercover (and noone knows)
by puppypersonLOTR107
Summary: Sometimes, Wes has a hard time of it. Luckily (or unluckily), he's quite competent at keeping things reasonably under control and entirely to himself.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. Sigh. Seriously, I'm really not creative like that.

Wes sat down at his desk with a sigh. It had been a long day, and it was only 4pm. He pulled an overfilled folder from his backpack, and thwopped it down in front of him. So much to be done. The history, science and literature assignments should be okay, but the math…Wes had always known, it seemed, that he was good at math, but this didn't mean it didn't require effort on his part. Math was a system of relating numbers to each other, of representing problems in a concise way, of making everything work together and make sense. When he was ready and focused, everything was clear, and problem solutions seemed to flow from his mind out his pencil. He enjoyed finding that space in his mind; he always felt capable and productive and pleased with feeling that he really understood.

Other times, it wasn't quite like that. And those times were happening more and more often, it seemed. And happening today. That "math zone" in his brain that he depended on for working math problems, felt off-limits, or unachievable, somehow. This sense of…something he couldn't quite name, but that almost felt like dread. But it was strong, and it filled his whole mind when he tried to do his work. It didn't make sense, and he didn't know what to do about it but hope it went away.

But it sometimes seemed like this feeling was (far from diminishing) becoming the norm, although that thought tended to trigger something that bordered on terror (as much of an over-reaction as that seems). It's not like it was that bad to not feel like doing math, but the betrayal of his mind, and the inability to apply himself to his work properly was really a pretty big deal in the long run. What if this feeling started affecting all aspects of his life? What if he couldn't cope academically anymore? What would that mean? What would he mean? How could he live in this world where an education is absolutely essential (and how might this affect his future career? How could he have a wife and kids?) And his thoughts went spiraling on…

Sometimes he felt this way in meetings. Meetings with teachers who liked him, respected his intelligence, but wanted more from him in certain aspects of his work. They were just trying to help, but the stress of the meetings didn't help.

And then sometimes his thoughts would wander outside his own immediate situation. He wasn't just an individual with schoolwork to do, he was a whole person, with a family, with friends, and all the relational complexities that invariably accompany these things. And Wes wasn't just a part of a family, but he was the oldest child. That means a lot more once you've lived through your mother's cancer and death when you were only fifteen years old.

Wes's younger sister, Nora, and his little brothers, Devin and Adam, often found their way into his mind, even when he was far away at school. Nora was dating that guy she liked so much, even though nobody approved of him; Devin was isolating himself and living off mac 'n cheese, and Adam…Adam had only been five, and it was hard to know exactly what went on in his little head. Wes knew he wasn't any of their parent, but with his dad so distant, he was aware that he needed to step up more as the oldest. Only, it seemed these days to be so difficult. When he thought about his siblings, he felt so helpless that he literally felt weary in his bones. He wished he could rely on his dad to take care of them, but what with the yelling, the scolding, and the new, peppy girlfriend on the scene, that just wasn't going to happen. Of course, at least he didn't have to worry that his siblings weren't fed and physically safe, but…there's still plenty of room for worry beyond that.

It didn't get better thinking about his friends. Jeff was under his eye, because he was pretty sure the guy was restricting his eating again, and that was only likely to deteriorate. He wasn't sure, but he was worried the younger boy might be cutting again. David was one of his closest friends, but he worried about him, too. David had been acting strangely; he'd had a crush on a girl who wasn't interested, and taken to declaring that he "needed to be alone" in order to get over her. It had been over two weeks since he'd had more than a few words with the guy. He suspected some sort of eating disorder there, too; more on the binging/purging side of things though, although he just didn't feel he knew enough for sure to confront his friend. Why? Well, in part because of this feeling that made him just terrified to try to deal with such a thing himself. He didn't know anything about those things. What good could he do? He'd probably just make it worse, anyways. The adults in David's life had to be checking on him, right?

But then he worried. Maybe this was his responsibility. Maybe nobody else would step up. Isn't that what friends do? But while he had always had friends, ever since Steven had moved away in grade school, he'd never felt super close to any one person. Never having that particular bond meant he'd never discussed anything especially tough or embarrassing with anyone. He felt entirely like a fish out of water even thinking about having a conversation like that with someone.

He'd certainly never discussed anything like that about himself with anyone else. Not about how he would bike as fast as possible to feel that muscle burn, so he could forget for a few minutes about his accumulating late math papers. Not about how he trembled all over after having an argument with his dad on weekends at home. Not about how he really couldn't see how he could continue on and make it through college and work a job, the way things were going. Not about this weird thing his mind did when trying to work math problems. Not about how exhausted he felt most of the time, even when he'd had sleep. Not about how he'd dig his thumbnail into the fleshy part of his finger from time to time throughout the day, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to break the skin. Nobody noticed these things or tried to talk to him, so how could he know how to do so for anyone else?

Wes sighed. So much he was failing at. Not least (though certainly not worst), this pile of math worksheets staring him in the face. He made a loose fist with his left hand and dug his thumbnail in, firmly but not roughly. Shifted slightly to a fresh spot. His second sigh was deeper. He didn't know if doing this made him feel better, exactly, but it seemed to allow him a moment to refocus.

Bending his head over the page, he tried not to go down a particular trail of thought. The one where he acknowledged that he was pleased he had chosen a way of maintaining control over himself, when needed, that nobody could notice. The marks lasted only a few minutes, and the motion was subtle enough he could center himself that way nearly anywhere without drawing attention. Occasionally he wondered if it would be better to be caught, if someone could tell him some better way to cope. But this really didn't seem that bad (it did, but it didn't), and he wasn't convinced any "better" way would be something he could deal with. Plus, how could he possibly deal with having anyone see him that way? It wasn't as though he would see anyone else as less for doing such a thing, but he absolutely couldn't shake the feeling that to be seen that way would be just awful. It would make everything that much worse. He knew there was something irrational there, but he never could make it work right. He didn't want anyone to know, because they could only treat him differently or the same; to be treated differently seemed terrible, but if they treated him the same, it would feel as though they didn't care. Better to keep it to himself.

Agh, he hated how his mind went down these rabbit trails. Sometimes a deadline helped with the focusing, and this was due tomorrow. One more apparent fist-clench, and Wes plowed through, inch by inch. Then he searched through his dvds until he found Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the one where they were spies and did a lot of shooting. He didn't really enjoy this type of violent movie, but some nights he just needed to lose himself in something mindless, and this pretty much fit the bill.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: you know the drill.

Once, Wes had taken that leap. He'd been on a backpacking trip with his church youth group, and the nine of them had spent several days both enjoying the beauty and struggling against rain, steep slopes and aching feet. The last night, they'd all sat around the campfire. The leaders encouraged the kids to be real with each other. To tell anything they wanted to tell. Out there in the midst of the forested mountains, with the open sky visible overhead, things had seemed different. Real. Maybe not real. But kids started to open up. One told how he'd been bullied daily on his walk home from school. Another told how she and her sister had been sexually abused by a family friend. Another told the story of her older brother's struggle with drugs, including jail time and near overdose. All these stories tore at Wes's heart. He wanted so much to make these horrible things better for his friends. These people weren't his closest friends; those were his childhood friend Steven and several Warbler members, but he cared about them. And he trusted their adult leaders too; he'd known them for years and believed they cared about all the kids in their care. They had known that his mom had just died.

So he had opened up, as well. He kept it a bit vague, but told how sometimes life seemed so hard. So tiring. He prefaced it with a "but I would never do anything," but shared that life just didn't seem worth living sometimes. It was hard to say. It was really hard to say. He was afraid of what it would mean to say it out loud. What it would mean to acknowledge to himself that he felt that way. What it would mean to the ones who heard him. Whether it would affect his future (not that he saw one, exactly, for himself, but even so). In the moment, it was just one confession among many. There were some hugs, and then silence, and then someone else began to share. It seemed all right. The world didn't end.

But the issue of telling is, you don't want to be treated differently, but you don't want to be ignored. Wes didn't know what reaction would have been ideal, but he didn't figure that none was quite right. He sure didn't want an over-reaction or anything, but it had been two years since that day, and none of the kids or adults had ever mentioned it to him again. He'd been relieved that they respected his privacy, but at the same time, did they not actually care? Had they not understood him? Did they not think it was a big deal?

Wes knew that he was seen by everyone as a good kid. He was responsible, studious, caring toward his family and friends, respectful, and all that. He kept his temper. Did they believe that since he was such a good kid, he would never do anything like what he'd hinted at? Did they presume that he was a strong enough person that he would just be fine, regardless of how he felt at that moment? Did they think his confession was of a fleeting emotion that would pass?

It wasn't something he thought of every day, but sometimes while lying in bed at night, Wes would try to puzzle through it again. He just didn't understand. He had his suspicions about his friends, but if they were to actually confess something, he was pretty sure he would do *something*. Ask them what they wanted him to do. Or something. He wasn't sure, but he was pretty sure that some sort of action was in order. Of course then these thoughts lead to feeling like an inadequate friend, because where exactly was that line? Was he himself being remiss in not taking action to talk to some of his friends? Had he missed hints like those he'd given that night?

He just wasn't sure. Turning over in his bed, he scrunched the pillow closer to him and tried to turn his mind off so he could sleep. Sleep was so elusive at night, so enveloping in morning…he hated it. Thumbnail, finger. Again. Be quiet, mind, be quiet…just let it be.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I'm not nearly that creative. I wish.

Sitting back in his chair, Wes grimaced internally. He'd been so excited to get a part in this opera. It was only community theater, but it was the first time he'd performed outside the safety of the Warblers. When he sang with the Warblers, they all looked alike and dressed alike, and he knew everyone and was extremely comfortable overall. Here, he was in the chorus, but he didn't know anyone else. He'd made a few friends so far, and everyone seemed nice, but it was still really different. The Warblers were a self-run student organization, for one, whereas here there was an actual director, as well as a music director. Plus a stage manager and a couple of other people helping run everything. Wes was usually comfortable around adults in general, but he was much more familiar with settings like school than this. It was something he'd wanted to get into, this theater world, but it was his first foray in, and it was very new. The intensity of the director made him a little nervous; he figured she was just acting a little harsh in order to prevent anyone feeling they could slack off or anything, but it was a little disconcerting.

And it made moments like this that much harder. It had been announced that rehearsal time was (unsurprisingly, he supposed) in reasonably short supply. Therefore, everyone would be expected to behave, ie be attentive, not direct each other, and (he inferred) not offer suggestions or comments out of turn, or ask stupid questions if it could be helped. These things made sense. But Wes was used to taking charge, at least from time to time. He knew a reasonable amount about choreography and music. And sometimes things came out. This time, it had been especially borderline - a suggestion that perhaps some of the guys in his voice part were singing the wrong part. He realized as he was saying it that it was not a thought that should have gotten said. It wasn't that bad of a thing to say; it was early in rehearsals yet, and he hadn't said it with a tone of accusation or anything, but it wasn't right to have said, really. And he was immediately embarrassed he'd said it. And it seemed that the director had (nicely, with a smile) agreed with Wes as he'd taken back his statement, saying he was probably mistaken. So that didn't make him feel any better. Now he'd be the kid who was overeager, couldn't keep his mouth shut, or possibly (and worse) the one who blames things on others, or something like that.

Since they were arranged by voice part, Wes hadn't managed to seat himself in the back of the room. He felt a bit exposed sitting in the front of three rows, but reasoned that it wasn't a big deal. Only, he felt this feeling rising in him. So embarrassed at having spoken without thinking thoroughly, he wasn't sure what made him react this way, but it's not like it was new. He supposed it turned into some sort of anxiety, though the terminology never seemed quite exactly right in the moment.

Wearing short sleeves and athletic shorts, holding his score in his right hand, Wes was thinking about angles. Usually this worked best with crossed legs and two free hands, but he needed a singing position while seated (ie, feet on floor) and to hold onto his score. Glancing at the singer to his left, he assessed. Well, he'd never been caught or suspected before, so why should anything change now?

Wes breathed deeply. There. That was better. He wondered sometimes about this response to situations like this. How did it make it better? How did it make any sense? It was a distraction, he'd always told himself. Something tangible to distract from the more ethereal, emotional stuff. A way to control his emotions by controlling something else. Sometimes, though, it felt more like a consequence, though - more like the kids he'd read about in books at the library (in full surreptitious mode, with a couple of excuses all in hand, just in case he was caught). Distraction or punishment - was one better? Was there really a difference? Did it matter?

But this wasn't helpful either. Keep going. Bring it back to the moment, what's going on here, except don't think about the stupid comment, and also don't think about how you're not thinking about the stupid comment. Just try to move on. Do what it takes. And soon someone tells a joke, and things shift back to a better place. It's good again now. Until the next thing comes. It might be tomorrow or the next day, or it might be five minutes. But anticipating is of no use, so just laugh at the joke, Wes tells himself. If the moment's good, just stay there while you can.

A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who have reviewed! I half figured nobody would be interested in my random little story here, so I was very appreciative that anyone found it worth the time to read let alone review! The encouragement is...super encouraging, so thanks again!


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